


Persistence of Memory

by ursa_maritima



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign 2 (Critical Role), Gen, and the storm lord and yasha, but there's a bit of obann and yasha, damn you blindspot, it's not really relationships, look okay episode 69 was r o u g h okay, so I'm not sure how to tag it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 18:48:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19751650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ursa_maritima/pseuds/ursa_maritima
Summary: The woman we know as Yasha - as Yasha knows as herself - is not who she seems to be.Faults in memories can be both blessing and curse.So can second chances.





	Persistence of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> after That Reveal the one tiny portion of my brain that wasn't running in circles going 'aaaaaAAAAAaaaaaa' went "wait but how did Yasha end up with the circus so far from Xhorhas" and came up with this.

The weather in the mountains can get rough. Winds whip up out of nowhere, carrying with them stinging dust, driving rain, or tiny pinpricks of graupel that warn of the deeper cold that follows.  
Storms blow down from the high peaks to the foothills, growing in intensity as the air warms and currents clash against each other, wringing more moisture from the air and flinging it up into roiling clouds and down against greying earth.  
Seasoned Xhorhassians know to watch the quiet, warm nights and keep an oiled canvas handy for when the winds rise, even in the cities; the sheets of rain lash just as loudly against shutters as they do trees and tents.  
But for a real storm, the kind of storm that resets your scale of what it means to feel alive yet insignificant against the sheer indifferent fury of a living, breathing storm- the storm that leaves you stunned, deafened by the leftover silence that presses you down into your bones, struggling to draw breath?  
For that kind of storm you need a prairie- long, flat stretches of land that let the winds run and race and dance before slamming into each other and blooming upwards into vast towering anvils, dark and unyielding. The kind that dominate the heavens, changing the very color of the sky and turning a simple summer rainstorm into a ravenous whirling creature that destroys and consumes and yet leaves delicate flowers untouched in expressions of capricious whimsy.  
A living Storm.  
A Presence.

\--

They've been walking for days now, enjoying the lack of elevation changes, the balmy weather, the comparative boredom that comes from not seeing another soul. They have nothing to fear from the big grassland cats who watch lazily from the tall grasses- predators recognize other predators. They're relaxed; their pace indulgent and languid, unhurried, unbothered by the rising heat and thickening weight of moisture in the air.  
(This is their second mistake.)  
The first mistake was made several days ago, when they decided to turn their attentions eastward and leave the foothills and cities behind in favor of an easier journey across the grasslands. 

The Stormlord has been watching for a very long time. He's waited. He's been waiting for her; watching her long enough that His awareness of her has become its own tiny system of energy and light, capable of showing Him where she is even when His full attention is elsewhere. Today, though; today, all aspects of Him are watching like the big grassland cats. The troupe of figures making their inexorable progress across the plain ignore the fat drops of rain that splat intermittently against the ground, raising tiny puffs of dirt and dust as they hit. They aren't soft city folk or busy country folk with a reason to avoid a bit of weather, not when it provides such a wonderful opportunity for untraceable travel and easy pickings. What's a bit of rain to a zealot?  
(This is their last mistake.)

\--

The summer storm brewing half a continent away is a simple creation of cool winds and moisture meeting sun-warmed earth, but the geometry of life loves balance and parallels, and the Stormlord grins as the ever-so-faint tickle of static brushes at the edges of his awareness. 

Finally. 

He turns His attention to the wide Xhorhassian plain and sculpts the storm, using banked fury with precision like careful dagger strikes to curve and coil the air. Clouds swell and boil in the disturbed upper atmosphere as He drags them ever upward with sweeping strokes. The forward edge of this storm is impressive from below, it's true; dark grey thunderheads growing bigger, the wind blowing a little cooler, the rain falling a little faster. The zealots can't see the way the storm flattens as though hitting an invisible wall, like smoke trapped in a box- and now that the rain is heavier, they don't look up for long enough to notice as it begins to dance.  
The Stormlord turns, and the storm turns with him; His eyes glow with power, and the skies brighten, a strange greenish tinge that coats the remaining sky. The air grows heavy, dense, and the sticky-hot heat sinks deeper into the ground as the wind begins to rise. 

One of the figures far below pauses briefly as the wind tosses the tangle of white-tipped black braids and twists into her face, peering upwards at the deep grey-green overhead with mismatched eyes. Light floods her vision- lightning arcing between layers of the massive storm, and for a moment she sees a face, a figure, some kind of indistinct presence that she can't describe lingering in the afterimage as she blinks her eyes clear. She opens her mouth to ask her companions if they'd noticed anything odd, but gasps instead as thunder erupts from all around, a bass rumble she can feel even in the earth below her feet. The temperature plummets as sheets of rain descend, every hair on her skin standing upright with the sudden change, and she whips her head around at Obann's hoarse bellow. The thunder is too constant to distinguish words, the rain too heavy to see through, but she can faintly make out his arm, waving wildly as the rest of the group scatters, looking in vain for any kind of cover. She takes a step forward, then stills in midstep as Obann’s voice changes, fear bleeding into the edges of his still-indistinct words. She raises a hand to the hilt of her sword, reaching to clear it from its sheath- if there is something hunting them in the storm, she wants to be prepared. One handsbreadth of steel, then two, then-

Light

Light, and… a voice. 

\--

Obann feels the energies of the storm change, and barks out orders to find cover. He turns and sees the static coalescing around his mirror, his perfect fallen angel, and yells at her - down! get down! - but the wind rips his voice away. He takes a step toward her, a second, then sees her move like she's about to unsheathe her sword and shouts, willing her to hear- 

Light

He's thrown backwards, the shock of the lightning strike so close that it arcs out into the three closest zealots. They're not much more than ash, rapidly turning into mud in the deluge, he notices faintly as he scrambles to his feet and lurches his way shakily to the place she'd been standing. There's nothing- not a mark from her boots, no singed grass, no fused-formed dirt left by the lightning's strike. It's as though she had never been. He ducks as lightning arcs down again, coming too close against the heels of another deafening roll of thunder. There's nowhere to escape the storm- no convenient cover, no stand of trees to take the brunt of the fury, and there's a growing darkness at its heart that fills too much of the barely-visible horizon for his comfort. Time to go. The rest of his troupe will either figure it out or perish; she's the only one he cared about, and she can't be that hard to find. He winks out of existence as lightning strikes too close yet again, singeing the edges of his cloak and blinding him with more of that painfully blue-white light.

\---

Light.

It's everywhere, all around, filling her vision. She still can’t see, her ears ringing with a blank buzzing silence, but a deep inhale fills her nose with hot metal, singed hair, wet leather, rich earth. She can’t move- her hand hurts where it’s clenched tightly around the hilt, but she can’t seem to relax her fingers. Even her sense of being is shaken; she’s not sure if she’s still standing or if she’s been knocked to the ground. She blinks furiously, eyes streaming tears, and realizes that she can feel them on her face; but not the rain that had been stinging her skin not moments ago. That’s...worrisome. That’s- no, there; her vision is returning, blurry shapes coalescing from the light. Her ears still buzz with silence but she feels cracked scratchy grass beneath her, inhales a multitude of soft floral scents deep into her lungs, and blinks her eyes clear to gaze up at a clouded grey sky.  
That’s wrong. The ground around her is dry, though the chill in the breeze wafting around her speaks of rain in the near future. But it had just- she pats her vest with one hand, gingerly uncurls her hand from her sword to run fingers through her soaked hair that is, somehow, entirely dry.  
That’s weird.  
Is it weird?  
The storm is coming, but it hasn’t broken yet. Why would she be wet if the rain hasn’t fallen? 

She sits upright, gazing out at what is not actually the dry, yellow-brown tall grass she expected, but is instead a vast expanse of color. Tall purple spears stand above fat broad clumps of white and yellow, tiny flowering stars arranged around center stalks, red blossoms like shields in varying stages of openness clumped together in irregular shapes; here and there a fan of sprouting red-purple grass sticks out higher than the rest. She reaches out to touch one of the purple spears. It’s papery beneath her fingers, the petals flexing like the edges of a book. She doesn't recognize them.

Zuala would love them.

The thought rises up gently, like a feather drifting in the wind. It's the first time she's thought about Zuala without feeling like she's choking on sorrow, drowning in rage. It's been- she pulls her hand back, suddenly, flinching away from the gently-waving blooms. She doesn't know how long it's been. Her armor is the same, the sword at her back a comfortingly familiar weight, her hands still callused- it feels like that terrible day of discovery and betrayal could have been yesterday. Yet the ache in her muscles and some of the scars on her fingers are unfamiliar, and at the same time not; she knows them, knows the small crescent on her thumb is from shaving kindling onto a fire, that the long shallow groove on the outside of her forearm is from squeezing past a splintery door.  
The memories are wrong. Or, no. They're not wrong, they're just misplaced- mistimed? Hers, but not hers, or hers but picked over like a child's breakfast, only eating what they like and leaving the rest behind. There's a burn at the base of her palm and she has no memory of receiving it- she knows it wasn't there before because it's the kind of thing Zuala would have traced with gentle fingers and pressed soft kisses to, and she's certain that bit of skin has never enjoyed her touch. Somehow that one thought - that Zuala would love this field of unending flowers - feels more real and solid than anything else. It’s a comforting certainty, and against its weight the half-formed worry and confusion from her strange memories begins to fade. She can’t bring Zuala here to see these flowers, but she could bring the blossoms to Zuala, couldn’t she?  
She pulls the small book from the pouch at her hip, presses a few tiny papery flowerlets from one of the purple spears between its pages, then reaches out for one of the broad red petals. While laying it flat on new page, however, a fat raindrop splats against the paper, and she curls protectively around it, stuffing it hurriedly into the pouch as the rain begins to fall in earnest. Distant thunder rumbles musically, almost sounding like voices. There’s a faint smudge on the horizon that might be useful as shelter, if she can make it there before the storm. 

(When she opens her eyes at a rasp of leather on stone, snapping awake from her dreams of voices like rolling thunder and shields of lightning, the first thing she sees is faintly-glowing red eyes below horns glinting with metal and jewels, pale skin gilded with red firelight, and a curiously-waving tail. She’s never seen him before, but he feels familiar. Safe, in a way she can’t describe. It’s easy to reach out and accept the outstretched hand, follow him towards the fire and the motley troupe scattered around it.)

**Author's Note:**

> I stress-wrote the majority of this the night after the episode aired because I haven't been so full of [internal screaming] since CR1ep68, and I haven't had anyone else take a look at this. I'm open to questions or suggestions for clarification if there's parts that don't make sense, but please drop me a line/message on my tumblr for that (marmotsomsierost).
> 
> [The Persistence of Memory](https://www.moma.org/collection/works/79018) isn't my favorite Dali work (that's [Archaeological Reminiscence of Millet's Angelus](http://archive.thedali.org/mwebcgi/mweb.exe?request=record;id=108;type=101)) and I'm not gonna lie, I did briefly consider using ARMA as a title because c'mon, a surrealist's version of a painting of people saying a prayer for the departed called the Angelus (that said surrealist demanded be x-rayed to prove his point that it was funereal in nature) is _kind_ of fitting for the mindfuckery that happened that episode but not, I think, fitting with the overall tone I was aiming for. 
> 
> (we'll see how I feel once mercer returns to finish breaking our hearts on thursday.)


End file.
